The Chronicles of Amber

“We're both fine,” I said. I glanced up the road and frowned. There would be an inn just ahead, beyond the grove of trees over the hill… a rambling old inn with a railed porch around the front. Dad could rest easily there. A brilliant physician lived on an estate not far beyond. He could help us.

It had to be so. My vision made sure of it.

Chapter 7

Sure enough, the small town came into view when we topped the hill. As places go, it was nothing fancy, perhaps two dozen buildings, but a sprawling old inn sat facing us. Smoke drifted lazily from a pair of tall brick chimneys, carrying smells of fresh bread and roasting meat. Three gray-bearded old men sat on the porch in rocking chairs, whittling away at wooden blocks. As we approached, they all looked up and called cheery good- mornings.

“Somethin' wrong with that fellow?” one of them asked me idly. He stared without concern at our father's bruised face and bound wrists.

“He has seizures,” I said. It came out sounding more exhausted than convincing; it had been a long day. “I tied him up to keep him from hurting himself. That last seizure almost killed him.”

“Ayah.” Nodding sagely, he settled back into his chair and began rocking slowly once more. “You'll be wanting Doc Hand, then.”

“Not Young Doc Hand,” said the second old-timer, still whittling. “The one you need is Old Doc Hand.”

“Ayah,” said the third whittler. “Old Doc Hand, he's the best for seizures, sure enough. He lives over the short hills, nearer to Haddoxville than to Barleyton, at Manor-on-Edge.”

“Thanks,” I said. Old Doc Hand would be our man.

The first whittler said, “Have Young Jamas fetch Old Doc Hand for your daddy. Young Jamas ought to be inside, behind the counter more'n likely. He won't mind the trip. His girl's in Haddoxville, right enough.”

“Ayup,” said the second whittler rocking slowly. “Young Jamas won't mind 'tall.”

I glanced at Blaise. “How are you doing?”

“I feel much better,” she said, giving me a look that said the worst for her had passed. “Though after that foul farm beverage, I need a real drink.”

“Jamas has the best wine in seven counties,” said the third whittler.

“Thanks,” I said. “When you're thirsty, come in and I'll buy you all a round of drinks.”

“Thank you kindly!” said the first. “We'll be along presently, once Jamas has you settled in, sure as you're standin' there!”

I carried Dad inside. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the low-ceilinged common room, I saw scattered tables and a long counter. A pot of something hearty-smelling simmered in the fireplace.

Behind the counter stood a red-haired man of middling years. He looked up from polishing the thick oak slab used as a bar and gave a friendly nod. Could this be Young Jamas?

“Mornin',” he said with a pleasant smile. “Somethin' wrong with that fellow you're carryin'?”

“He's ill—having seizures.” I decided to stick with that story.

“Need a room, then?”

“Three of them.”

“Have your pick upstairs.” He nodded to the steps at the far end of the room. “There's no one else stayin' here at the moment. It's nothin' fancy, mind you, but the beds're warm and the food's good and plentiful.”

“That's all we want.” I started for the stairs, then hesitated. Better take care of Dad first. “The men outside said to ask for Young Jamas. That wouldn't be you, would it?”

He chuckled. “I haven't been Young Jamas in nigh on twenty years. That's my eldest boy. I'm just Jamas now.”

“Not Old Jamas?” I joked.

“Nope. Old Jamas is my Da.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jamas.” I nodded politely. “I'm Oberon. This is my sister Blaise. We were hoping your boy might go to Haddoxville for Old Doc Hand.”

Jamas nodded. “Old Doc Hand is the one you want, sure enough, for somethin' like seizures. Always go with experience, I say. My boy's out back getting wood for the kitchen. He'll be back in a few minutes. I'll send him straight for the doc. He won't mind.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”

Turning, I carried Dad up the narrow flight of steps to the second floor. I pushed open the first door on the left with my foot, finding a small chamber with mismatched pieces of furniture: a high-canopied bed, a narrow armoire, and a battered washstand with a chipped blue basin. It would do quite nicely for Dad.

“Here, let me get the bed.”

Blaise hurried around me and drew back the patchwork quilt. I slid Dad between the sheets. He was drooling again. I sighed and wiped his mouth on his shirt.

“Can I untie him now?” she asked. “I don't think he's dangerous.”

“All right. But be careful—if he wakes up, he might get violent.”

“He wouldn't hurt me.”

“You can't trust a madman.”

Silently she untied our father's wrists, rubbing at the deep red marks they left. Dad stirred a bit and murmured softly. Then, to my surprise, she reached down and removed a knife with a unicorn-hilt from his right boot. I hadn't known he carried one there. It matched the one I'd taken from him earlier.

“I keep my eyes open,” she said with a grin, as if in answer to my thoughts. She passed the knife to me, and I tucked it into my belt, next to its mate. “Not that it will do much good—he can always get another one with the Logrus.”

I hadn't thought of that, and I frowned. What use to disarm someone who could get a new weapon any time he wanted?

“Maybe we should leave him tied up…” I said.

“If he gets loose, he gets loose. I'll help you catch him next time, if it comes to that.”

I raised my eyebrows. Again, I sensed the warrior within her that she kept so carefully hidden behind silks and lace. I did not doubt her word: if she said she'd help catch him, she would do it.

“Come on,” Blaise said. “I want that drink now.”

“Me too.”

We started for the door, where I drew up short.

“Wait!” I felt a sense of contact from a Trump.

“What's wrong?” Blaise asked.

“Someone's trying to reach me—”

I concentrated, and through a strange, flickery tunnel I saw a shadowy figure. He—I thought it was a man—seemed to be saying something. I couldn't quite make out the words, though.

“Who is it?” Blaise asked.

“I can't tell,” I said.

“Oberon…” The man's voice echoed faintly.

“Aber?” I said. His image flickered, then grew clearer. It definitely was my brother—but much thinner than the last time I'd seen him. His cheekbones stuck out and dark circles rimmed his deep-set eyes.

“… alive!” he said. His voice faded it and out. “I've… to reach you… days!”

“Time runs differently here. Where are you?”

“About… killed!” he howled. He sounded desperate. “Get… before…! Hurry!”